


The Itch That You Can't Scratch

by robotboy



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-05 21:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: It’s that moment you put your hand in water, right before you figure out whether it’s too hot or too cold, when your nerves will only tell youtoo much.That, but suspended indefinitely on the edge. It makes Crowley’s heart pound like it’s going to crack his ribs. It makes his toes curl and his scalp tighten.





	The Itch That You Can't Scratch

This is by far Crowley's favourite part of the Arrangement.

The Arrangement is, of course, unwritten. But a lot of it is unspoken, too: between angel and demon is a complex economy of dinners and favours and wine and insults. Then, after a lot of wine and a lot of insults, the Arrangement involved sex.

Angels are sacred creatures. The first time Aziraphale had touched Crowley’s shoulder, a few millennia ago, it had hit him like a bolt of lightning. These days it’s more like pressing on a bruise. Perhaps the shine of heaven is wearing off him, or Crowley’s developing a tolerance. He still stings when he walks into temples, and there’s a kind of sacred beef that makes his throat close up. He doesn’t stop doing any of these things—especially not the beef. He’d have fucked Aziraphale if it felt like being flayed alive, if he’d only figured out how to seduce him before the sixteenth century.

It’s that moment you put your hand in water, right before you figure out whether it’s too hot or too cold, when your nerves will only tell you _too much_. That, but suspended indefinitely on the edge. It makes Crowley’s heart pound like it’s going to crack his ribs. It makes his toes curl and his scalp tighten.

Aziraphale is on top of him, with Crowley’s thighs tangled around his waist. His arms are braced around Crowley, aching at every point of contact. Crowley is squeezing him and riding Aziraphale’s cock like his life depends on it.

Aziraphale grunts, lifting Crowley and repositioning him so he doesn’t hit the headboard.

‘Why you must _insist_…’ he huffs, but he can barely get a sentence out at the frenetic pace they’re going. ‘You really _are_ terrible.’

Crowley groans, his stomach tightening. It’s almost as good as the touching. He claws through the hair on Aziraphale’s chest. The action causes every joint in his hands to complain, and Crowley has to bite down on his lip to stop from shivering.

He’s not even certain Aziraphale knows what this does to him. Crowley certainly doesn’t care.

His cock is red and leaking, desperate for attention. His hand slithers between them to stroke it, just to take the edge off.

‘You wicked thing,’ Aziraphale mutters, tugging Crowley’s wrist away. Crowley gasps, even if he'd been half-hoping Aziraphale would.

‘S-ss-sssay it again,’ Crowley begs.

‘Fiend,’ Aziraphale says. There’s conviction behind it, even just because he’s appalled that Crowley _asks_ to be spoken to this way. ‘Vile creature.’

Crowley’s mouth falls open, agape and silent. Aziraphale looks expectantly as if Crowley is capable of forming words. Then, upon the realisation that he isn’t, Aziraphale’s gaze fixes on Crowley’s bottom lip where it hangs helpless. Crowley trembles: he has not been still since this began, just a fluctuation between quivering and shuddering. The way Aziraphale stares at his mouth, that hurts worse than the ethereal contact, more than the stretch of his thighs and the crash of their hips: it hurts because Crowley sees Aziraphale’s lips parting to mirror his and he _hopes_.

A noise breaks out of Crowley’s throat and he lifts his head off the pillow, about to beg for something else. Aziraphale’s expression changes, and the angel’s palm claps over Crowley’s mouth to save him from the mistake he’s about to make.

Crowley screams into the skin. His jaw twinges and his throat constricts from the heat of Aziraphale's hand. It makes his cheeks burn, not just from the contact but the chastising intent behind it. He also suspects it’s the nearest Aziraphale will come to slapping his face, and he inhales at how sharply he craves it. Crowley rears into the touch, seeking more pressure. Aziraphale thrusts into him roughly, a reminder of what they’re actually doing there, and Crowley lets out a muffled howl.

Aziraphale’s hand clamps down harder, trying to trap the sound. Crowley pours every unspeakable plea and saccharine endearment into the safe wet of Aziraphale’s palm.

_Thank you,_ he mouths, his own fingers skittering over Aziraphale’s cheek. _Only you do this to me. Only you do this for me._

His fingertips tingle. This is how close they get, touching each other’s faces, eyes locked, hips working in unison.

This is why Aziraphale’s face shutters, the hint of a sneer in his mouth, before he lets go of Crowley’s face and pulls out—Crowley gasps at the sudden emptiness—and Aziraphale grabs him by the ankles and flips him over.

Crowley’s head spins, face suddenly full of mattress instead of angel. Aziraphale yanks him back so Crowley’s ass is up and his spine is arched. When Aziraphale finally sinks back into Crowley, it’s deeper than before, aching through every inch of him. Crowley pushes back and Aziraphale’s fingers dig into the grooves of his hips, steering him, setting the terms. Crowley yowls now he’s unconstrained, trying to wriggle and find a way to fill himself. His hands end up in his own hair, pulling fistfuls of it as Aziraphale withdraws slowly, almost slipping out. Crowley attempts to clench down on him, to hold him there, to keep them locked together. He hears himself sobbing into the sheets, kicking uselessly at Aziraphale’s calves. But Aziraphale waits, virtuously patient, until Crowley has dissolved into sweat and shivers. Crowley’s cry is high and fractured, a sound so pathetic no angel should ever have to hear it. But he’s here, and he thrusts into Crowley so hard the headboard thumps and echoes Crowley’s shout of pleasure. It hurts so much Crowley can’t breathe, so fast he can’t think, and _this_ is what he wanted. This is what he needed.

‘Come on’ Aziraphale murmurs, in a deep register Crowley forgets he’s capable of. One broad hand rubs along the rippling contours of Crowley’s back, to rest with searing pressure between his shoulder blades. ‘Show me.’

Crowley whimpers, but he obeys. His wings unfurl in stages, and Aziraphale’s touch follows the arches of them, preening through the feathers. He hasn’t stopped moving, still rocking inside Crowley: a good thing, too, because Crowley needs it more than he needs to breathe.

Aziraphale slows, grinding in tight circles, keeping them close. Crowley squeezes his eyes shut and focuses, and feels the air shift in the room. Aziraphale’s wings are out too, keeping him balanced where he’s mounting Crowley. And Crowley remembers, under all the soft earthly affectations, that Aziraphale was a warrior once.

Aziraphale fucks him hard enough to leave bruises, thrusts backed up by beating wings while Crowley’s can only ruffle and flutter in response. Crowley’s hips bounce shamelessly—what use has a demon for shame?—and he shoves himself back, absolutely wanton. His cock is straining, hanging ignored underneath him. It throbs every time Aziraphale slams forward. Crowley writhes on the sheets, seeking purchase and finding none. His wings flap uselessly. He can’t breathe, the tension coiling in him like it’s going to crack. Like the moment a star implodes into existence: the most unbearable pressure, and equally unbearable pain, yes, but so, so _bright_.

_Why do you like it?_ Aziraphale asked him once.

_Opportunity to get filled by the divine again,_ Crowley had grinned.

Aziraphale had pushed him off the bed.

Aziraphale doesn’t ask anymore. But he doesn’t deny Crowley, either. He just fucks him senseless and tells him he doesn’t like him.

Maybe he’s getting off on it too.

_Maybe you have some ingrained urge to be punished,_ Aziraphale had suggested. That time Crowley had pushed him off the bed.

But just like Aziraphale will call him all sorts of names—_not my friend_ was probably the worst, Crowley’s never asked for that one in bed—but take him out for dinner, Crowley likes the kind of sex that leaves bruises. He’s not really interested in theorising his abandonment issues, or Aziraphale’s staggering aptitude for cognitive dissonance. He’s just interested in this happening as often as possible.

He doesn’t need to think about Heaven or Hell or Earth or any of it, just that overwhelming impact of Aziraphale fucking him. That place inside him that makes his vision turn white and his spine turn to liquid and his wings arc out. He sobs, and he comes untouched, shattering into a million little splinters, held together by the endless aching weight of Aziraphale on top of him.

Aziraphale keeps fucking him while Crowley wails into the pillow. The angel’s thrusts are getting erratic, hitting that spot inside Crowley that wrings a few more spikes of pleasure from him. It feels perfect, Crowley can’t tell him, it feels like home.

_You are home, here, in me. This is our place._

No, he doesn’t say it, but maybe the syllable finds its way out of his mouth in an unbidden ‘_oh.’_ Aziraphale doesn’t make much noise as he comes but Crowley does, still groaning through a string of ‘_oh, ohh, ohhh_.’ A litany, or a curse, maybe. It’s hard to say, when he can’t tell where the angel ends and the demon begins.

After a while the bliss starts to fade, and there’s a very painful, heavy angel lying on top of Crowley’s back and squashing his wings. Crowley grunts, but in a companionable sort of way. Aziraphale tumbles off him, forcing an undeniably snaky hiss out of Crowley.

He sprawls out beside Aziraphale, heart still pounding. His face is tear-streaked. He rolls onto his side, and he sniffles. Aziraphale lies facing him, panting heavily, a decidedly un-holy glow about him. Aziraphale traces the corner of Crowley’s eye, rubbing salt water between finger and thumb. Crowley doesn’t even flinch.

‘My dear,’ Aziraphale murmurs. The candle beside the bed gutters, making shadows flit across his face. ‘Are you—?’

‘Don’t,’ Crowley snaps. He rubs the heel of his palm over his face, sitting up. Aziraphale’s hand hovers at the small of his back, close enough to sting.

Aziraphale doesn’t speak again, but Crowley repeats it anyway. _‘Don’t.’_

Aziraphale draws a breath, but Crowley’s wings are already folding away as he pulls his doublet on. He winces as he gets into stockings and breeches, his thighs still sore. He finds his boots near the door, and he doesn’t bother with the laces.

He glances back at the bed. Aziraphale looks stunned by how quickly Crowley has dressed. His eyes have a sheen in the moonlight, but his wing still arches invitingly like it once had over Eden.

‘Just—’ Crowley starts. He shakes his head, finding his glasses and pocketing them. Before he can say anything foolish, he leaves.

He’ll be back. It’s all part of the Arrangement.

**Author's Note:**

> If this fic took you apart, [these](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946560) [two](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19799749) might help put you back together again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] The Itch That You Can't Scratch, by robotboy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943392) by [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig)


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